Spartans at the Gates

by Noble Smith

  Nikias had no desire to be either humiliated or pounded senseless by Apollo. But his body just wasn’t up for the fight. He knew he couldn’t beat the Athenian with his muscles. So he’d have to use his mind. His grandfather had told him over and over again that a fight could be won before the first punch had even been thrown. The trick was to get inside the head of the adversary. And then blindside him.

  Once, after making a stupid boast, Nikias’s grandfather had forced him to fight a much bigger man—a brutal warrior named Axe—with one arm tied behind his back. His grandfather had intended on teaching a Nikias a lesson at the hands of the other man’s fists. But Nikias had humiliated Axe in public, beating him down before the man had even thrown a punch. He had used Axe’s own hubris to trick him into making the wrong attack, and then Nikias had knocked him senseless.

  He took off his pack and tossed it to the side along with the felt cap. Then he walked to the center of the stage and addressed the crowd. “Good citizens of Athens,” he said in a steady voice. The people quieted down a little and looked at him with interest. “Apparently my opponent is well known to you, but I am a stranger to the city, having just arrived from the Oxlands, where we are at war with Thebes.”

  Now a hush fell over the audience and even Apollo stopped jawing with his friends and watched Nikias with a predatory curiosity.

  “I am the son of Aristo of Plataea, Nemean tribe, Nikias by name.”

  There was a slight pause, and then the crowd erupted into whispers. Nikias glanced at Apollo. One of the Athenian’s companions said something in his ear that made his face grow dark. Finally, a man in the bleachers said in a stentorian voice, “Gods! He’s the Bull of Plataea’s heir!”

  “Menesarkus’s heir?” shouted another.

  “My money’s on him, who’ll wager?”

  “Fifty silver owls on the Oxlander!”

  The noise in the theatre was suddenly deafening as men made frantic bets. This would be a real fight!

  So far so good, thought Nikias. He’d planted a seed of doubt in the haughty Apollo’s brain. Now he had to twist the knife a little more.

  “Now I must apologize to my opponent,” said Nikias over the din, “for I do believe I falsely accused him of stealing my favorite traveling hat, which started all of this nonsense. And I am sorry for it.”

  Apollo turned to his friends and threw up his hands saying, “I knew he had a hare’s heart. He won’t fight me.”

  Nikias caught Konon’s gaze and saw that the young farmer looked relieved. He gestured for Nikias to hurry up and leave the stage. There were many disappointed groans in the crowd. The men in the audience had wanted to see a bloody pankration bout.

  “But,” continued Nikias, “I cannot forgive him for the disparaging remarks he made against the Oxlands. And especially the evil words he said against my late mother. And if he makes an apology to me immediately, I will call us even.”

  Apollo walked onto the circular floor of the stage and stood close to Nikias, eyeing him up and down. Then he turned to the audience and crossed his arms on his chest. “I’d rather stuff a sheep, you Oxland piece of crap.”

  Nikias smiled. “Excellent. That is what I hoped to hear. Because now you and I may settle an old score from when we were boys and you bit me like a dirty little rat.”

  Apollo’s lip curled back in rage but he was speechless.

  “You see,” continued Nikias to the spectators, “Apollo and I have met before, and I’m certain he now remembers our bout. When we were children my grandfather and I visited your illustrious Akademy. I fought several of the very best pankrators of my age. I beat them all. My final opponent was Apollo here, and I was pounding him to a pulp when—during a moment of grappling—he clamped his teeth upon my neck in desperation. I still have the scar to this day and you can see it clearly here.”

  He turned his face to expose his neck, pulling back his long hair to reveal a livid scar in the shape of an open mouth. The crowd voiced their disapproval at this story of a young cheating Apollo. The Athenian pankrator looked mortified.

  “His silence,” said Nikias, “proves that Apollo remembers that day and still feels shame for stooping to Spartan tactics to beat me.” He paused. Out of the corner of his eye he’d caught sight of the three exotic-looking hetaeras he’d seen in the street outside. They were the only women in the packed audience and the men around them neither bothered them nor paid them any undo attention. Chusor had told Nikias that hetaeras were like a race unto themselves in Athens—creatures from another world and treated as such. Only the richest men in the city could afford to hire these courtesans to entertain and comfort them. They were like sacred beings.

  Nikias locked eyes with the tallest of the three hetaeras. She was the most beautiful amongst the trio, with high cheekbones and dark intelligent eyes. She looked like a statue of a goddess come to life. Cocking her head slightly, she smiled and winked at him. That little gesture made his heart flutter and Nikias grinned from ear to ear. Standing at her side was a little dark-skinned slave girl who stared back at Nikias with an unflinching and sullen gaze.

  “Let’s fight,” said Apollo with murder in his voice.

  “Not yet,” said Nikias, tearing his eyes away from the hetaera. “I propose a new rule for our fight.”

  “A new rule?” asked Apollo. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said,” replied Nikias, looking directly at Apollo. Here was the crucial moment. This was the moment where he knew he would either win the fight or lose it. He had to push Apollo so far over the edge that he would become unhinged and fight foolishly. Push him so that he would lash out and attack without thinking straight.

  “Since you were unable to beat me as a child,” said Nikias, “even after biting my neck and drawing blood, and since I have been training nonstop since that day with the greatest living fighter in the world, thus putting the advantage considerably in my favor, I propose to even the odds.”

  “And how do you suppose to do that?” asked Apollo, outraged.

  “I propose to fight you one-armed,” said Nikias. “In honor of my friend Konon.”

  The theatre was utterly silent except for a woman’s melodious and mirthful laugh. Nikias glanced at the hetaera who had winked at him and saw she had put a hand to her mouth to contain her laughter, but the sound of her sweet voice still rang out clearly.

  Apollo took a step back from Nikias and stared at him in amazement. “You will fight me with one arm?” he asked, his mouth slowly shaping a smile.

  “Yes.” Nikias glanced at Konon, who had slid down in his seat and was covering his face with his hand and shaking his head. The young farmer stared at Nikias with an expression of pity.

  Nikias made a great show of lifting his left arm—his unwounded arm—and putting it behind his back, leaving his useless right arm dangling at his side.

  “You promise only to use one arm?” asked Apollo.

  “My word of honor as an Oxlander,” replied Nikias. “I will only use one arm.”

  “I accept your offer,” said Apollo.

  Those who had bet on Nikias sighed morosely, or cursed Tyke, the goddess of luck, or did both and started counting out their coins. This idiotic Oxlander had gone beyond arrogance. He was apparently mad.

  The fighters faced each other and the crowd burst into the eerie war chant that all Greeks sang before battle or a pankration match: “Eleu eleu eleu eleu.” The sound vibrated in the theatre, filled Nikias’s body, and made his skin crawl. He felt as though the chant were singing itself into his bones.

  “I’m going to crush you!” bellowed Apollo. “You conceited bastard!”

  Nikias looked him in the eyes and let all the hate and rage he’d felt over the past two weeks course through his veins like a molten fire in the blood. It was the final trick his grandfather had taught him—a way to channel pain into his fists. He could almost feel his hand swelling with power.

  Apollo lunged toward Nikias, reaching out with both hands t
o grab Nikias’s exposed right arm, intending to yank it from the socket. Nikias let him take it like an animal seizing bait in a trap. Then he swung his left arm—the arm he’d been holding behind his back—in a furious haymaker.

  Sheep-stuffer!

  Nikias’s huge craggy fist caught Apollo on the jaw, snapping his neck to one side with the force of a horse’s kick. Apollo didn’t even see it coming. Wasn’t expecting it. Nikias knew that his opponent would assume that he would be keeping his left arm behind his back for the entire fight.

  The Athenian was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  The crowd had never seen anything like it. The men got to their feet and yelled with delight, shock, and fury.

  “Apollo bested!”

  “With one punch!”

  The noise was deafening. Before Nikias knew what was happening he was in the street, dragged out one of the side exits by Konon. They ran together all the way across the agora, and finally stopped in an alley near the Street of Thieves.

  “I had to get you out of there,” said Konon. “Apollo’s friends were going to kill you.”

  Nikias wiped the sweat from his brow and laughed softly. “Probably.”

  “Zeus’s eggs! I can’t believe you pulled that off!” said Konon, smiling with admiration.

  “Neither can I,” said Nikias. “I hope you didn’t swallow that coin you put in your mouth because I need a drink.” They started walking quickly toward the Street of Thieves, but then Nikias stopped dead in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat. He turned and sprinted back toward the theatre.

  “What is it?” shouted Konon.

  “My pack!” yelled Nikias over his shoulder.

  But when he got back into the theatre his pack was gone and the theatre was nearly empty of people. He and Konon searched everywhere in vain.

  “Someone stole it,” said Nikias with despair.

  “What was in it?” asked Konon.

  “I’ve lost everything,” uttered Nikias, sitting on one of the benches and covering his face with his hand.

  “I found your pilos,” said Konon, holding up the ugly felt cap, smiling ruefully.

  TWELVE

  Nikias and Konon ate a dinner of bread, boiled eggs, fish, and goat cheese at a crowded wineshop in the Street of Thieves, right around the corner from Dr. Pittakos’s home.

  Night had fallen and the narrow lane was now lit by pitch torches and little oil lamps hanging from chains. This part of the agora was just coming to life now and was packed with men looking for cheap entertainment.

  Every so often a passerby would recognize Nikias from the fight at the theatre and come over to pat him on the back and offer their congratulations. The young Plataean was already something of a hero to the denizens of this part of Athens for besting the haughty and aristocratic Apollo—the nephew of the wealthy magistrate Kleon.

  But Nikias could take joy in neither the food nor the adulation, for he had lost the gold with which to hire mercenaries. His first day in Athens and he had already failed in his quest.

  “I can’t wait to tell my father about the fight,” said Konon, his face shining with delight and too much wine.

  “You’d better go home soon,” said Nikias morosely. “They’re going to be worried about you.”

  Konon frowned. “You’re coming back to the farm with me, aren’t you?”

  “No,” said Nikias. “I’m staying here. I’m going to find a way to talk to Perikles.”

  “You might as well try to get an audience with Zeus himself,” said Konon with a laugh, stuffing a boiled egg into his mouth.

  “I have to do something,” said Nikias, “if I’m going to get my grandfather to let me marry Kallisto.”

  “Ah!” said Konon. “She’s a girl you love?”

  Nikias scowled and glanced at a nearby table where a woman was loudly berating her husband. She had a fussy, red-faced toddler on her lap whose nose was running, as well as a baby in a ceramic high chair who was sitting close to Nikias. The husband was hunched over his wine krater, doing his best to ignore his wife.

  “You’re as drunk as a Skythian already,” she hissed. “And not a scrap of food in the house except the few drops of milk left in my ragged bosom.”

  The infant was bouncing up and down excitedly and pushed herself away from the table with her feet. Suddenly she tipped the high chair over backward. Nikias instantly reached out with his good hand and caught the back of the baby’s head, preventing her from smashing onto the hard stone floor, but the clay high chair broke apart with a noise that startled the baby and made her scream.

  “Gods!” said Konon with a laugh. “You even save babies.”

  The mother leapt out of her seat and scooped the girl in her arms, clutching her to her chest. She thanked Nikias profusely, and then rounded on her husband and cursed him to Hades and back for being a neglectful, drunken bastard of a father, then she stormed out of the wineshop carrying both of her children on her skinny hips.

  The husband sighed, rubbed his eyes, and poured himself another cup of uncut wine. He was on his way to getting thoroughly drunk.

  “Are you sure you want to get married?” asked Konon, eyeing the drinker with disdain. “You’re so young. Athenian men usually don’t get married until they’re in their late twenties. Look at what marriage has done to this poor bastard,” he added, gesturing at the drunk.

  “I’ve wanted to marry Kallisto since I was a little boy,” said Nikias. He briefly told Konon the history of their love—how they’d grown up as neighbors, separated by nothing more than ancient boundary stones and the enmity that her father Helladios and Nikias’s grandfather had shared for one another.

  When Nikias and Kallisto were children they would sneak off and build houses together out of branches and stones, hiding their friendship from everyone except Aphrodite, whom they called on as their protector. As they grew older they plotted their escape. They decided that if they were not allowed to marry, then they would run away together. Nikias reckoned he could make a living off prize money from fighting at the festivals, and eventually they could save enough silver to buy some land far from their feuding families.

  But all of that had changed with the Theban invasion. Kallisto’s father Helladios had been revealed as one of the conspirators in league with the traitor Nauklydes. And even though Helladios was now dead, Nikias’s grandfather had told him that he would not let him marry a traitor’s daughter.

  “In my grandfather’s mind Kallisto is tainted by her father’s crime,” Nikias said.

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t defy my father,” said Konon. “You should see him when he’s angry. Once I broke an oil jar—the big kind—and he chased me all over the farm with a willow branch. I can’t imagine what he’d do if I tried to marry a woman without his consent.”

  Nikias stifled a laugh. “My grandfather once chased me with a spear,” he said.

  “What did you do?” asked Konon, nearly choking on a mouthful of wine.

  “I hid in the mountains for a couple of days,” said Nikias. “Until his iron cooled off.”

  The drunk turned his chair and faced the two young men, giving them a lopsided smile. “I couldn’t help overhear your story of love, young man,” he said with an unknown accent. “And I am compelled to offer my advice.”

  Nikias looked closely at the foreigner—a dark-skinned man with bushy eyebrows, a proud beaky nose, and wine-stained teeth. He was around forty years of age, and handsome in his way, but possessed one of the scrawniest physiques Nikias had ever seen. If the man had been a Plataean citizen he would have been fined annually by the state for being unable to meet the battle fitness of a hoplite: to wear the fifty pounds of armor, and bear a twenty-five-pound shield—a prerequisite that lasted into a man’s eighth decade.

  “What’s your advice, friend?” Nikias asked.

  “Don’t ever,” said the foreigner, “under any circumstances, no matter how lonely or drunk or depraved”—a pause to take a long drink from
his cup—“be so foolish as to marry a woman and thus forever seal your miserable fate. And furthermore, do not procreate.” The foreigner put his cup to his lips and drained the wine, then chewed on some lees between his incisors. Then he stood and tried to bow, but pitched forward.

  “Now I must be off, young fellows,” he said politely, after they’d put him back on his feet. “I must attend to some business. I hope that you will heed my advice.”

  He staggered out of the wineshop and disappeared into the street.

  “Crazy drunken foreigner,” said Konon, fingering the metal disk he would use to redeem his mule and cart. “I pity the man’s sad wife.”

  “What’s this, then?” asked Nikias.

  A tall, willowy, and dark-skinned slave girl, of perhaps twelve years of age, approached their table and looked Nikias straight in the eye. She was unveiled and had a self-assured expression on her intelligent face.

  “Nikias of Plataea?” she asked, raising her chin regally.

  “Yes,” replied Nikias. “Who wants to know?”

  “My mistress sent me with a message.” She handed Nikias a tiny scroll bound with ribbon.

  He took the proffered message and pulled on one end of a rose-scented ribbon, then held the papyrus up and read it silently.

  “Well,” asked Konon impatiently. “What does it say?”

  Nikias read aloud. “‘To the great pankrator, Nikias of Plataea. Please come to my symposium tonight and make me laugh again. Blessings, Helena.’” He handed the note to Konon, who read it for himself, openmouthed.

  “She must be the hetaera I saw in the theatre,” said Nikias. He looked at the slave girl. “You were there, too, weren’t you? Standing beside your mistress?”

  The slave girl nodded.

  “I’ve heard of this hetaera,” said the amazed Konon. “She is very popular! You’ve only been in Athens for an hour and you’ve been invited to one of her symposiums. Unbelievable!”